"Where's the body?" he inquired, casually.
Marshal Crow's gaze deserted the sparrows and fixed itself on Newt's ear.
"The what?"
His companion exhaled a tremendous breath of satisfaction. Life was suddenly worth living. The Marshal of Tinkletown had not heard the "news." The marshal, himself!
"Well, by Gosh!" exclaimed the revivified Mr. Spratt. "Where have you been at?"
"That's my business," snapped Anderson.
"All I got to say is that you ought to be attendin' to it, if it's your business," said Newt loftily. "You're the marshal of this here town, ain't you? And everybody in town knows that Jake Miller is dead except you. You're a fine marshal." There was withering scorn in Newt's voice. He even manifested an inclination to walk off and leave the marshal without further enlightenment.
Anderson made a valiant effort to conceal his astonishment. Assuming a more or less indifferent air, he calmly remarked:
"I knowed Jake was a little under the weather, but I didn't think it was serious? When did he die?"
"He didn't die," said Newt. "He hung himself."